THE KODAMA

On an unseasonably warm spring day, a park ranger in California’s Redwoods National Park noticed the smell of fresh sawdust in the air. As he walked, he spotted felling wedges thrust into the body of an 800-year-old redwood. The tree was still standing even as sap dribbled down the bark like golden colored blood from a deep wound. The ranger placed his hand on the tree, feeling the grainy textures, the wrinkles of rings deeply embedded in its trunk. With the right wind, the tree, rising about 160 feet tall, would easily tip over. The ranger radioed to his colleagues, “Poachers,” he said as the tree teetered in the wind. The ranger estimated the tree had a week, maybe two, before it would crash to the forest floor.

But the tree knew its carcass wouldn’t last that long. The tree’s soul, the Kodama, hovered above itself, waiting, watching, as the termites moved in, the woodpeckers, beavers and caterpillars. The Kodama swirled like mist, vowing to take revenge on all who had severed it from its forest family.

*

The truck was dinged up and rusted, a casualty of the pot-hole covered dirt roads the park rangers drove up and down every day. Justin sat in the truck’s passenger seat, his bulletproof vest pinching his chest. He rubbed his sweaty hands down the front of his shirt before feeling for the gun in his holster.

“Whoever thought park rangers would be carrying out SWAT type raids,” Carl kept his eyes on the road, the tsk, tsk beneath his words. Carl was in his fifties, twenty years older than Justin and about to retire.

“You must’ve seen a lot of things,” Justin said while keeping his eyes focused on the side view mirror. If anyone started following them the instructions were to keep driving past their turn-off point. Justin had lived in this small town of Orick, California for three years. He’d put in for the transfer from Denali National Park when Alaska had become lonely after his girlfriend broke up with him and took their two Labradors with her. He liked Orick fine enough but it was the redwoods that kept him here. Being a park ranger had been his childhood dream after a family road trip when he’d stood in the middle of Stout Grove, looking up at the redwoods encircling him like a council of elders. Fern Canyon had come in as a close second as he ran along the river pretending he was in Jurassic Park.

Orick also used to be where all the pot growers lived, when that big business fueled insatiable construction and lavish houses built with Roman columns and elaborate swimming pools. When California legalized marijuana many of the growers tried to legitimize their businesses but were outpaced by venture capital backed groups like Med Men who had storefronts up and down the East and West Coasts. As a result, Orick now stood as a relic to the fleeting pace of shifting industries, like the old mining towns at the edge of the California / Nevada border. It was this economic depression that pushed some of the townspeople into illegal ventures like the one Justin and Carl were about to raid.

“Don’t be nervous,” Carl took his eyes off the road long enough to notice Justin’s arm was shaking. “We’re almost there.”

Carl turned down a smaller dirt road, slowing the truck to a crawl, before parking under a covering of ferns. He gestured the house was twenty yards ahead as he pulled out a gun from behind the backseat. Justin cocked his own handgun and crouched low, following Carl through the forest.

“Open up! We’ve got a search warrant.” Carl shouted while forcefully knocking on the cabin’s front door. Carl motioned for Justin to go around the back. Holding his gun up, Justin stalked toward another shed in the backyard. He heard the splintering wood of Carl kicking down the front door. The wind blew the shed door open and Justin snuck in, his gun extended in front of him. The sound of another truck rolling up the driveway made Justin crouch low until he saw it was a park ranger van. Carl had called for back-up. The cabin and shed were both empty. The poachers must have received a last minute tip-off. There was still warm coffee boiling in a silver kettle on the stove.

At the end of the raid, the park rangers stood in front of everything they’d found: brass knuckles, a handgun, camera, a plastic bag with traces of methamphetamine, and four meth pipes. The park rangers continued searching. And, scattered along a fence, under a tarp, they found it: burls, chunks of illegally poached redwood.

When Justin first started at the Redwoods National Park, Carl had described the burls as “big, gnarly bumps that form after a tree has experienced distress like a fungal infection, a lightning strike, or even a fire.” It had stuck with Justin – this idea of nature healing itself, winding new wood around wounds. He wondered when his own heart would feel healed, when he’d stop rolling over in the bed expecting someone else to be there.

Now Carl stared at the piles of redwood burls. “It’s such a shame burls produce this soft grained wood. If it wasn’t so beautiful and so expensive.” Carl turned to Justin, “People turn these into tables, sculptures, statues. Even the consoles of Maseratis and Ferraris. They say money doesn’t grow on trees but here in the redwoods it does.” Carl slapped Justin’s back, “Good work today, though we’re still no closer to catching this ring.”

Justin watched as Carl and the team loaded the burls into the back of their truck. He suddenly felt an icy breeze whip around him. Strange, given the intense noontime sun. Everyone around him was stripping off their jackets and bullet proof vests. He shook off the cold tingling his skin, reasoning it was just this morning’s adrenaline.

*

Two masked men circled the redwood tree. One held a chain saw, the other a lamp. Both wore ski masks and goggles. Gloves and work boots obscured their identity from head to toe. The man with the chainsaw began to slice the base of the redwood’s trunk, moving vertically, like a butcher slicing roast beef at the meat counter. He carved quickly, shaping the wood into squares with straight edges. The redwood’s trunk started to wobble, swaying in the night air like a candle flame flickering at the end of the wick, and then this majestic redwood that had stood for nearly 600 years fell to the forest floor with a thud and a crash. They carved the trunk into pieces, before loading the haul into a rusted truck.

“I get money, money, money.. We run Orick. Have a baby by me, baby, I’m a millionaire. I’m stinkin’ rich.” Bill rubbed his face from where the ski mask had pinched into his cheeks as he sang along to the rap lyrics while rolling a joint. The sucking flare of the paper lighting up matched the beat of the music. He exhaled toward the ceiling, ignoring the trailer’s warped walls.

The smoke rings dissipated. He blinked and there was Scratch standing over him. His lanky body looked like a limp hot dog, “I got a bad feeling about this, Bill. We gotta return those burls. Ain’t worth it.” Scratch’s voice was high-pitched, nervous.

Bill used his teeth to clamp down on the joint. He put his hands behind his head. They’d grown up forging a bond as logging brats, that’s what the town called them. Kids who bounced around from logging town to logging town, their fathers always on the go for the next big forest where they’d finally hit it big, following in the legacy of homesteaders, gold rushers, gamblers. Never staying longer than a few months. Never actually winning. When the entire logging industry dried up after the Timber Wars, it was Bill and Scratch who witnessed their fathers fall into alcoholism as they cashed government checks. Maybe it was the rap videos. Maybe it was the allure of those redwood trees growing so tall toward something big and grand, but Bill and Scratch wanted to feel some of that for themselves. Or, at least, that’s what they told themselves as years passed in this town that seemed to dry up a little bit more with every passing season. As if the drought that was sucking up the iconic fog was also sucking up the town’s lifeblood so that it hung heavy like the sagging tits of their neighbor’s Labrador that had just given birth to another round of puppies.

“I’m gonna get myself a puppy and a mansion with granite counters and a granite fireplace and two big columns out in front like those Romans and I’m gonna cheat on my taxes like all them rich fuckers do and invite the entire town over for 4^th of July.” Bill opened his eyes, smiling to himself at the thought, ignoring Scratch’s concern as he took another hit, breathing in long and holding it, feeling quite satisfied with his vision of the future.

“I’m serious, Bill. That tree is cursed. I know it.” Scratch paced the trailer, his floppy brown hair falling across his eyes so when he turned to pace in the opposite direction his hair flung back, revealing a long scar down the right side of his face, the reason why he’d grown his hair long in the first place.

“Scratch, you sound like a goddamned idiot. There’s nothing special about that tree except for the money it’s about to make us when we sell it to that Ferrari dealer.”

“No Ferrari dealer is gonna buy from us. That guy’s lying to you. You met him online like what two weeks ago? And he says he’s this big baller? It don’t add up.” Scratch sat down on the couch, wincing as he felt the metal springs popping through the thin cushions, snapping at his butt like the river turtles he used to play with as a kid. But all that was before he was struck by lightning in a freak summer storm, giving him the scar across his forehead, and, some said, infusing him with electricity so that he almost buzzed as he walked.

“Just ‘cause both you and the tree were struck by lightning don’t mean you’ve got some psychic understanding of tree bark.” Bill was down to the nubs of his joint.

Scratch shifted uncomfortably on the couch. What was he thinking trying to sabotage a deal that would give him more money than he knew what to do with? He could leave this town, move to Portland, open a barbecue restaurant, meet a nice girl, have a family. He was only 30 – old for this town but young for other places. People didn’t age in cities, they got smarter, richer, more efficient, faster. But thinking about the 160-foot redwood that was chopped up in the back of their truck made Scratch’s dreams feel hollow and vacant. When alive, this tree had been called ‘a freak of nature’ by the local newspaper. After being struck by lightning the redwood had grown a new trunk high in the sky, and then it had spawned another tree that grew from its branches, rising up nearly 200 feet above the forest floor. Huckleberry bushes even grew in its cavities, an entire ecosystem floating above the ground. Scratch didn’t even know how that was possible, but he’d seen it with his own two eyes and now it was dead. Its entire world had crashed to the ground and for that incredible sin Scratch was certain that he and Bill would be forever cursed.

“Forget the crazy talk. The deal happens tomorrow. And then we’ll be rich.” Bill closed his eyes but Scratch shook his head. He’d heard all this before. It’s what his dad had also said, ‘tomorrow, we’ll be rich.’ That tomorrow never came and now Scratch was sitting in a shitty trailer feeling poorer and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life.

*

“I told you that guy was no Ferrari dealer.” Scratch shuffled across the dirt, blinking into the naked sun. He and Bill stood in a clearing that had been razed down for lumber. In the distance, the hum of whining metal into wood blared out from a wood shack.

“If they ask for the papers we’re screwed.” Scratch rubbed his forehead.

“It’s a craft fair.” Bill’s eyes got big and he suddenly started laughing. Bill hadn’t been the same since he went on that bender. He’d claimed to have gone clean but Scratch was doubtful. Scratch had never touched any of that meth stuff – life seemed scary enough without it – though what he was craving right now was a solid night’s sleep. He’d been tossing and turning since they cut down that tree. He kept waking up with heart palpitations, feeling like something was hovering above him.

The carving machine continued humming and then it stopped as suddenly as it had all started. Bill ran toward the building, shouting “What beauties,” at the beautiful redwood chests that had been carved from the burls. Scratch didn’t want to see any of it. He wished he could close his eyes and have this all be over, take his money and leave this place.

“Help me load ‘em up.” Bill shouted.

Scratch sighed, letting the blade of grass he’d been twisting fall to the ground. He looked down in time to see a ladybug’s red polka dot shape scuttle into the shade. Life was damn miraculous if you looked around once in a while. Scratch told himself that’s what he’d do from now on. Take whatever share of the money was his and commit himself to all the small miracles. Maybe he could buy the town library some books, help Nancy Rey open that diner. But as he walked toward the redwood chests gleaming under the sun, carved with beautiful lines and adorned with gleaming brass handles, he thought who was he kidding? It was all a pie-in-the-sky dream. Even from all this beauty carved from nearly thousand-year-old wood he’d probably just get enough money to pay his rent for a month and go out to one nice dinner.

*

Sweat dripped down Bill’s baseball cap as he smiled toward the two women perusing the redwood chests artfully stacked in his vendor’s stall. As the women chatted, ‘look at that wood grain, doesn’t it remind you of Granny Netta’s?’ Bill exchanged a look with Scratch warning him to stay silent. Scratch could have a loose tongue when he was nervous. It had happened once before when Bill had asked Scratch to keep it secret that he was screwing the snow plow guy’s wife and the next thing you know Scratch was blabbing all the details after too many eggnogs at the town Christmas party.

Scratch avoided eye contact, preferring to look toward the middle distance, taking in all the other craft booths. This antique fair had become one of the most famous summer events in Humboldt County. He wondered how many of these antiques were actually made from stolen wood – they couldn’t be the only ones with fake paperwork.

“It will last you a lifetime.” Bill said as he ran his hand over the chest, making eye contact with the younger of the two – she was blonde in that fake way that reminded Bill of pin-up girls and Playboy centerfolds.

“My mother loves pieces like this. The lines on it are gorgeous. It must have come from a very special tree. I’m Ashley.” Her green eyes twinkled.

“A very special tree, indeed, Ashley.” Bill said, giving her a wink. Suddenly, Scratch walked up, his loping gait forcefully determined. Bill stepped in between Scratch and Ashley, giving Scratch a look that clearly said – if you fuck with selling these, I’ll kill you. Ashley ignored the awkward tension between the two men and smiled, “I’ll take it!” She handed over the cash. Bill smiled in return and offered to help her carry the chest out to her car.

Just as Bill was about to load the chest into the trunk, hurricane winds swirled across the parking lot, ripping up chunks of grass and slamming people against their cars. Whatever this force was picked Bill up and body slammed him against the ground. Dark clouds covered the sun, revealing a white ghost like a shapeshifting force of fog floating above him. Two black holes where eyes should have been were swirling, sucking in all the light.

Scratch frantically crawled away from the booth, moving in the opposite direction, looking over his shoulder to see if Bill would get back up. He looked dead. Was he dead? Suddenly, this ghostly force pulled Bill’s body to standing and the fog-like arms started strangling him as lumber saws appeared out of nowhere, stabbing him, grinding across his bones, turning him into a limp voodoo doll. Scratch swallowed back the scream. This white ghost was doing to Bill the exact same things they’d done to the redwood tree.

Dirt clouded Scratch’s eyes as snot fell down his nose and commingled with tears as he crawled the entire way to the Sheriff’s office. With torn clothes and bloody knees, he opened the door to the small building.

The receptionist looked up from a stack of paperwork, surprised to see him there, “Scratch! What happened to you?”

Scratch waved the concern away, “I’m here to report a crime. It’s what the tree wants me to do.”

___________________________________________

Christine Arroyo’s work has been published in X-R-A-Y Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, Dark Recesses Press, Beyond Words, Burningword Literary Journal and Variety Pack, to name a few. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, “Best of the Net,” and is recently featured in the 2023 Best Microfiction Anthology. She has just completed her first novel about siblings navigating an increasingly warming world.